After noting Noah's affection for the remote control, we took the batteries out of a couple remotes we never use anymore (aside: what, do these things BREED or something? is the "Sanyo" remote the bastard lovechild of the Sony and Panasonic remotes? because we don't OWN anything by Sanyo. remotes! cease with your fornicating!) and gave them to Noah to play with. We thought this was terribly clever of us.
This morning, Noah was chowing down on what I thought was one of the battery-less remotes until suddenly, the sounds of Dan Zanes' Catch That Train! (best kids-ish CD EVER, by the way, and you can officially add Mr. Zanes to my list of Bizarre Crushes On Men Whom I Love Merely For Their Remarkable Effect On My Child, like my elderly pediatrician and Joe from Blue's Clues) flooded the room.
Noah and I both jumped and looked at each other, and besides the immediate thought of dude, nice fine motor skills, I was suddenly struck with the realization that Noah had his back to the CD player and the remote in his mouth, and that the trajectory of the...I don't know, remote control laser beam firepower had just traveled through his brain and skull.
"That," I observed to the dog, "cannot be a good thing."
(Ceiba farted and immediately jumped off the couch to smell Noah's butt. She is not helpful, but she is a damn smart dog about a very narrow range of things.)
However, I think the most disturbing aspect of this whole story is that my first instinct, even before grabbing the remote out of Noah's mouth or looking up "remote-control battery-slobber brain tumors" in Dr. Spock, was to rush over to the computer and tell the goddamned Internet.